Charitable Contributions

11: Fix It

"Thanks." Huh. Mia's posted classes were on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. She was hiding something.

Today's guy profusely thanked her, putting a guiding hand on her back and holding the door. Was she teaching more people one-on-one? The idea burned into me, coating my tongue dry. Mister Smooth's melon-sized biceps were covered in black ink. I about lost my shit when he tugged her arm to stop walking and wrapped her up in a hug.

Her spine and arms froze in a robot position, but his back rounded so their chests were flush. Really don't like it.

Her hands patted his back, starfish fingers splayed. The door closing didn't blur the red dots flashing over my view of them hugging. His hands staying north of her equator did nothing to quell the heat rising under my skin. My feet didn't register until I was outside, exhaling hot, sharp breaths over them. At least I was taller.

"Thank you," he whispered into her shoulder.

My mouth moved before my brain caught up. "Is this guy bothering you, Mia?"

'Cause he was bothering me. He was handsome, with a square jaw, a straight spine–nope, didn't like it.

"No." Mia's face wrenched into a scowl, showing the first sign of herself in five days. "Thanks for telling me, Dave."

She threw him a smile so sweet, I hoped his teeth rotted. He bid her goodbye, eyeing me with 'Where do I know you?' question marks in his eyes, and left. I high-fived myself for his retreat.

Mia's smile dissolved into a bored expression. Her voice was tight as she clipped, "It's not Wednesday. What do you want?"

Play it cool. Don't admit–"You're avoiding me." I crossed my arms, adding a flex of my biceps, not melon-sized but noticeable enough that she frowned at them. "And I don't like it."

So much for playing it cool. Her eyes rounded, blinking up at me from her lashes. Fuck, even those were pretty. Nice. Pretty nice...I was beyond fucked. Sweat tickled my hairline. My tongue was so heavy, I swallowed. Explain, Mia. The floor's open.

"Don't know what you mean," she mumbled, turned on a squeaky croc heel, and stomped off.

I willed my eyes higher than her rounded ass, which jiggled with each step. So fucking stubborn. I heaved a sigh as her door slammed, a cloud of dust falling off her rusty junk of a truck. My truck was old but hers was a relic. Was that Ford model serviced anymore, much less manufactured? Rust covered the grill and front fenders and beneath a layer of dust, it appeared to be light blue. Its engine churned like a dying cat. Nope, it coughed, turned, and choked. Not a relic, a jalopy.

Mia's reactions behind the wheel morphed through an impressive spectrum. Her eyebrows creased together, and she held a tense grip on the wheel. She turned the engine again. The second attempt was worse, with only a few attempted clicks. For a millisecond, her eyes rounded so wide, her irises were surrounded by white. Her head shook, strings of muffled, "No no no no fuck no!" muffled inside, and her truck jiggled when she pounded the wheel.

Any cocky, 'Need help?' offers died on my tongue when her face morphed into devastation. Her mouth and eyes curved into rainbows, her lips parted, and sobs made her shoulders bounce. Tears streamed over her cheeks before she cupped her hands over them.

I opened the door without another thought to raspy sobs, uneven gasps, and snotty sniffles. "Mia?"

"Muh-muh..." A strangled sob choked off her words.

A half-shriek might've been in there too. I'd never heard that sound, but it was louder than her choked engine. She sat with her back rounded and pressed her elbows on her thighs. I cupped her heaving shoulder. "Calm down." I pressed my thumb against her neck. Her pulse raced. "Breathe, Mia."